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Thursday, April 4, 2013

Liz Crowe - Mutual Release

MUTUAL RELEASE
By
Liz Crowe

BLURB:
Disclaimer: This is an 18+ book with erotic BDSM scenes and explicit language.

Can two dark souls ever make a light?

As president of her own distribution company, Julie Dawson has all she ever wanted -- money, power, and respect. But her carefully crafted façade conceals a torment of abuse and helplessness. After years remaining emotionally aloof, she is finally independent, but alone. Because she refuses to rely on anyone but herself ever again.

Evan Adams is no stranger to success, or personal demons. The horrific trauma that destroyed his twin sister, and tore his family apart, forced him to craft a new life from the ashes of the old. He's content enough, focusing ahead and not dwelling on his murky past. But something important is missing. He knows what that thing is but refuses to acknowledge it.

When a chance encounter brings these two strong-willed but damaged people together , what seems like a long, erotic journey through hell could lead them to a match made in heaven.

MUTUAL RELEASE

A coming of age novel about trust...on the long road to love.

EXCERPT:

Monday dawned bright, clear, and cold, even for an
October morning. Evan ran his usual route around the west side of his newly
adopted town, relishing how strong he felt and looking forward to his workday –
the one where he had a tight grip on his own destiny for a change. After a long
hot shower, two huge cups of coffee, and an apple, he grabbed his presentation
thumb drive and laptop and headed out.

One of the things he’d inherited from his father was a
love of classic English cars. He had sold two of the three Jags, kept his
favorite and bought an MG Spyder, not giving a shit at how much it cost to keep
the damn thing running properly. As he sped in his sports car across Interstate
96 on his way to the far-flung Northern Detroit suburbs to sweet talk, finagle,
and wow the big-time distributor, he was on top of his own personal mountain.
Nothing would spoil the day. He refused to allow it.

He pulled into a visitor’s parking spot, tucked his
Ray-Bans over the visor, and smoothed his hair before jumping out and striding
to the glass front doors. “Dawson” was etched in the glass, nothing more or
less, as if it were a boutique law firm or ad agency. Nothing out front
indicated that it was one of the most successful craft beer and domestic wine distribution
companies in the Midwest.

Tucking away a shiver of intimidation, he pushed the
door open and saw a small shrine to Michigan craft beer. The front receiving
area was full of faux six packs, cases, kegs, and displays representing every
brand, including some that were nationally known. A single desk sat near
another set of doors. Through its clear glass he could see a bustling group of
people, men and women, all dressed in top-notch suits, getting ready to go out
on their sales day. The place oozed professionalism, even a bit of snootiness
that surprised him.

But he shook it off, walked up to the stunningly
attractive blond woman at the front desk. She sat frowning at a large computer
screen. He stood for a few seconds, thinking she would acknowledge him. Finally
he had to clear his throat to make her look away from whatever had her
mesmerized.

“Oh, hello. Sorry about that.” Her smile made her
already gorgeous face light up and left him slightly breathless. Looking back,
he figured he must have looked like a complete ass as he stood there, unable to
form coherent words, his brain awash in sensations he had not allowed himself
to experience in a damn long time. She arched one perfect eyebrow. He gulped,
knowing he should say something.

“Uh, so, I have an appointment?” He winced at the
upturning of his sentence as if he were asking her a question. Clearing his
throat, he started over, pasted on his best “Evan Adams, Charmer” smile and
held out a hand. “Evan Adams, owner of Big House Brewing in Ann Arbor, here to
see Mr. Dawson. I’m a little early.”

She tilted her head, then shook his hand
matter-of-factly. But he had to stop himself from stumbling backwards at the
thoughts coiling up in his lizard brain at her touch. His mouth dried out and
an odd yet familiar roaring sound fired up between his ears. She frowned. “You
okay, there, Evan?” Her lips caressed his name, making him repress a shiver.

“Yeah, sorry. So, anyway, I’ll just sit… over here…
until Mr. Dawson is ready. You know, since I’m, uh, early.” He winced,
marveling at the depth of his dorkiness. She put her elbows on the desk, eyeing
him closely. He observed that she seemed a little overdressed for a
receptionist but figured this place must have a strict dress code.

“Sit here,” she said, patting the seat nearest her
desk. “Keep me company for a while.”

“Um, sure,” he said, flushing red to the tips of his
ears, then moving closer to her while trying to look cool, casual, not ready to
jump up and escape.

She smiled. “So, tell me about your company. You know,
while we wait for Mr. Dawson.”

He relaxed and launched into the tale, thankful to
have a reason to talk and not sound like the world’s oldest high school geek
trying to flirt with the prom queen. She asked a lot of questions, kept him
talking. And after about a half hour, he was laughing with her at his tale of
trying to empty a brewing vessel full of wet grains and dumping about ten
pounds of the stuff all over himself.

At one point she brushed her hair back, and his breath
caught in his throat at the glimpse of her long neck and the small indent
between her collarbones. He had no idea what that was, that soft spot that
seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. But he wanted to put his tongue there very,
very badly. Allowing his eyes to flicker over her profile, the striking angles
of her face, he gulped, looked away.

Getting a grip, he pulled a business card from his
portfolio and handed it to her. “I’d love to talk with you more,” he said,
trying to ease his voice down from its high-pitched nervous whine to a sexier,
more natural tone. “But since I don’t even know your name…” He looked at the
nameplate on the desk. It was blank.

She leaned back, propped her high heels on the desk in
a strange move that had him instantly on edge and practically panting with horniness.

“Uh, so,” he glanced at his watch, his nerves dancing
up and down his spine once more, “if you are interested, maybe we could, you
know, go out. Have a beer? Keep chatting?” He closed his eyes, unable to bear
his own flop sweat another minute. “Never mind.” He slumped back in his seat.
Where the "Master Dom" Evan Adams had hidden he did not know, but
damned if the guy was staying there and leaving this ridiculous, stuttering
loser in his place.

The silence spun out about a minute longer than was truly
polite. He finally looked up at her. She was staring at him over the tops of
her shoes, her head tilted to the side as if wondering why the hell he was even
cluttering up her space. Finally, the doors to his left opened and a tall,
good-looking guy in a suit stood there, surprise clear on his face. “Julie,” he
said. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Your nine o’clock appointment isn’t
here yet but…”

The woman held up a hand, silencing the man but
keeping her eyes pinned on Evan’s. His heart sped up and that familiar, yet
nearly forgotten, roaring sound started up in his ears once more.

Julie Dawson. J. Dawson. The person he’d been
communicating with through his… or her… secretary.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He stood, furious that she’d sat there and let him
babble on like a bloody idiot for nearly forty-five minutes. “Well, that was
fun,” he said, staring her down, or attempting to. But his skin was both on
fire and cold at once. Something about the woman made him have to hang on to
his laptop case tight, just to keep from stepping close and kissing those full
red lips so hard she would be his in an instant. “Or not. Thanks for your
time.”

“No, no, don’t go,” she said, getting to her feet in
one fluid, sexy move. She was over six feet tall in her shoes, curvy, womanly,
and sending out the sort of signals he had not intercepted in a long time – too
long, if the way he was overreacting was any indication. “Really, I want to
know why you think my company would be in any way interested in yours.”

He processed her barb, clenched his jaw, and poured
out the reasons behind why Dawson would benefit from jumping on his bandwagon
now, in the early days, so they could grow the brand in a key market together.
She listened, standing behind the stupid receptionist’s desk, her assistant
wildly typing notes on his tablet.

Finally, she held up a hand again. “How very…
creative.” She walked around to the front of the desk, giving him an
eye-popping full view of her. She was like sex on two perfect female legs, the
exact body type he craved – full breasts and hips, cinched in but not
obnoxiously small waist, long hair, and legs that went on and on… and on. “And,
um, Evan?”

He jumped back, hearing his name again.

“Yeah, my eyes are up here. But never mind. I’m used
to being ogled, and by way more successful brewery owners than you.” She held
his business card between thumb and forefinger, as if it were made of dog shit.
“Tell you what, why don’t you let me ponder your… proposal. And assume that
your eye-fucking session won’t happen again.”

She turned from him and walked away without a word.
Her assistant shrugged and followed her back in, leaving Evan breathless,
furious, and never more aware of his neglected libido.

Microbrewery owner, best-selling author, beer blogger and journalist, mom of three teenagers, and soccer fan, Liz lives in the great Midwest, in a major college town. Years of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as an ex-pat trailing spouse, plus making her way in a world of men (i.e. the beer industry), has prepped her for life as erotic romance author.
When she isn't sweating inventory and sales figures for the brewery, she can be found writing, editing or sweating promotional efforts for her latest publications.

Her groundbreaking romance subgenre, “Romance for Real Life,” has gained thousands of fans and followers who are interested less in the “HEA” and more in the “WHA” (“What Happens After?”)
Her beer blog a2beerwench.com is nationally recognized for its insider yet outsider views on the craft beer industry. Her books are set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch and in high-powered real estate offices. Don’t ask her for anything “like” a Budweiser or risk painful injury.

Follow the tour and comment; the more you comment, the better your chances of winning. The tour dates can be found here: http://goddessfishpromotions.blogspot.com/2013/02/book-blast-mutual-release-by-liz-crowe.html